May 2007, Nibelheim
Cloud and Tifa have been married for a year.
It surprises him when he realizes their anniversary is just after her twentieth birthday. He reflects on how he went from being terrified at the idea of marriage to it becoming an integral part of his everyday life, as if he had always been married to Tifa. He wakes up, and she's there, cuddled up beside him. He goes to bed, and she's there. He comes home from work and waits for her to finish her rehearsal so she can take her spot next to him.
The shitty part of him used to worry that they'd get bored of each other, he'd get sick of seeing her every day and having sex with the same person. But he finds comfort in the familiarity. Knowing her body, what she likes, memorizing every inch of her. He's only grown to love her more, desperate for a glimpse of her smile, wondering what else he can do to bring her happiness. Tifa makes Cloud a better person. He thinks it's stupid trying to chase excitement when there's someone at home who loves him and wants to hear about his day.
He changes his life for her in ways that are subtle. It isn't much different—his goals don't falter too off path. He wants to survive, live a comfortable life—but he wants to do it with Tifa. He wants her life to be happy and comfortable. Everything he does, it's with her in mind.
And Cloud takes her out on a Friday night. It's early, around six PM, when he calls the landline so she knows to come downstairs. He thinks he should probably get Tifa a phone. She says she doesn't need one, but it's something he wants to do for her.
He watches as she steps out of the front glass doors. The sky is still light, clouds shifting around the sun—it shines brighter the moment she reveals herself to the world.
Her skin shimmers in an ivory sheen. Dark brown hair straightened to the middle of her back, her fringe swept to the side. Tifa wears a pink long sleeve shirt with a plunging neckline. But she's not that daring, retaining her modesty with a camisole underneath, the lace peeking through the top. It takes her a second to find him, and her hair sways behind her when she tilts her head, fixing the strap of her sling as she hurries over to the car.
When she opens the door, she slides in beside him. Immediately enveloped with the fruity smell of her perfume, whatever product she wears in her hair. CLoud's mood is lifted with her presence. Tifa looks at him and smiles, her eyes softening—a deep brown merging with the swirl of her pupils, specks of amber shining through the darkness where the sun has made its home.
"You got a new car?" she asks him.
Cloud huffs an amused breath as he leans back against the seat. He's not in Aerith's car—thank God. He couldn't fucking take it anymore. He's been looking into getting his own car for a while. He's married, he needs to take care of his wife—so he does something grown up. He gets a car loan. Zack helped him with the financing. And the car is practically new, only a year old. A black Acura. Tifa twists her shoulders, lifts her butt off the seat as she inspects the car with doe eyes.
"Surprise," he says, reaching to pat the top of her head. He looks her over, stares at her thighs hugged by blue denim. They're faded at the knees, rhinestones encrusted on the pockets.
Tifa looks too cute to be seen with him. Cloud needs to start dressing better, always wearing whatever he's pulled out of his dresser. He only cares what he looks like naked, because that's Tifa's view of him ninety percent of the time. He put in some effort today, wears a baggy Ed Hardy tee shirt with an unzipped sweater over it, black jeans ripped at the knees and Converse sneakers. Yuffie noticed, she called him Hollister today instead of Abercrombie.
"You look cute," he tells her as his palm glides down the length of her hair. Tifa hunches her shoulders and looks at him through her lashes—they're curled, drenched in mascara. She doesn't wear much makeup. Her lips are pink, a hint of color on her cheeks. And that's it. The rest is just Tifa, squinty eyed and dimpled, her knees rubbing together like they're on their first date.
"Thank you."
Cloud falls in a trance as his gaze melds with hers. He forgets what he wants to say, what his plans are for the rest of the night. Tifa's eyes soften as she fidgets, trapping her hand between her thighs. His fingers are still in her hair, weaving through flimsy strands.
When he leans in and kisses her, their eyes drift close at the same time. He feels her the vibration of hum, the slip of her lipstick painting his mouth. He kisses her again and again as his hand grips her neck, tilting his head so he can kiss her a little deeper. Her breath warms his face in a mist. He kisses her softly, puckers his lips and dabs affectionate pecks on her mouth. She tastes good, sweet and sugary and like Tifa.
Oblivious to the outside world, all that exists to him in that moment is her. He sees nothing but darkness, her image sketched in swirling black. The buzz of the engine and her airy sighs fill his senses. He feels her touch as she grasps his hand over her neck, her palm warm on his knuckles as he caresses her.
The shitty part of him wants the date to end so he can fuck her. Cloud wants her so bad, ravenous for her body, for her to spread her legs for him like his dirty little slut while he fucks her until they both pass out—
—But Cloud isn't going to be shitty today. He's going to be a good husband and take Tifa on a date. He's pretty confident he found something she'd like, and it's a miracle she agrees to go out in public on a Friday night. He wipes the lipstick off his mouth with the inside of his sleeve, swiping his thumb over the edge of her lip.
He takes her to an old movie theater on the west side of the city. Tifa looks out the window as he parallel parks, watching the swarm of people crowding the streets. She squints against the glare of neon signs from businesses lining the sidewalk. Her lips squirm as if she wants to frown, but doesn't.
"What's this?" she asks, batting her lashes curiously as the engine falls silent and Cloud unfastens his seatbelt.
"They play old international movies here," he tells her. The light commotion from outside is muffled through the windows. Tifa doesn't look at him, but fidgets in her seat, staring at the outside world like she fears being a part of it. Sensing her discomfort, Cloud places a hand on her thigh, feeling the tough scrape of denim on his palm as he squeezes. Her gaze darts to him, doe eyed, quavering. Her fingers creep over to his.
"Just so happens, the one they're showing tonight is Bulgarian."
A smile falters on her lips. It grows, Tifa bares her teeth. He sees the lift in the apples of her cheeks. "Really?"
Cloud's hand wanders from her lap to pull the key from the ignition. Rolling his shoulders, he raises his brows in a smug indifference. "Yea. Is that cool with you?"
There's a softness in her eyes that melts him, like she's so touched, her knees coming together as she nods her head. "Yea."
The film is called Yo Ho Ho, from 1981. Cloud thinks it's some kind of pirate story, but it turns out to be more of a dark hospital drama. He struggles to keep up with the plot at times, despite the subtitles. The gist of it is clear—a child in a hospital forms a bond with a man paralyzed from the waist down. In exchange for telling pirate tales, the man asks the kid to steal enough drugs so he can overdose. Pretty depressing fucking shit.
The theater is practically empty, he and Tifa sit near the top row. It's not the type of movie they can start making out to, so that idea is crossed out of his head.
Cloud sinks and slouches in his seat. Their whole row is empty in the dark room. Tifa sits beside him, her back straight, staring at the large screen below as she holds a box of skittle between her thighs, dipping her hand in to grab one at a time. She seems invested, he wonders if she's ever heard of this film before. He thinks he watches her more than he does the actual movie. But he forces himself to pay attention in case she wants to talk about it after.
When a lock of dark hair falls in front of her eyes, she throws it back with a flick of her neck. The lipstick is wiped off her mouth, but it dyes the natural color of her lips a deeper pink.
Cloud traces the curves of her side profile. He likes the gentle slope of her nose, the deep curl of her eyelashes. They way her lips separate and pucker. Her neck stretches, long and creamy, glowing in the dimness of the theater. His mouth waters looking at her. He wants his lips on her throat, sucking her skin, feeling the reverb of her murmur beneath him.
But Cloud behaves himself, sits there and watches the movie. It makes him feel kind of smart, watching something in a different language. He thought he'd be bored to death, but it's not a bad movie. And by the end, he appreciates it. When he looks to his side, he sees Tifa dabbing at her eyes.
Shit—was he supposed to feel something? He's not sure what exactly happened. The ending was pretty ambiguous. Cloud might be too dumb to decipher the meaning behind it. But Tifa's smart, she gets it.
"Did you like the movie?"
He takes her to eat at a restaurant afterward. It's casual, but more crowded than he hoped. Tifa seems uncomfortable, curling into herself as she sits.
It's after nine PM, and they find themselves alone in a corner by a window. Conversations and laughter buzz around them, blending with the clanging of dishes and loud shouts from the kitchen. Tifa looks down at a bowl of soup, swirls the contents with her spoon idly as she shrugs, giving Cloud the briefest glimpse of her eyes.
"It was kinda sad. But I liked the ending. It was hopeful."
Shit—Cloud still doesn't get the ending. As locks of her hair slip on the table, Tifa nudges them away so they don't get in her food. Cloud sits on the edge of his chair, leans his elbows on the counter. He's not very hungry, picks at his plate so Tifa doesn't feel weird. He can't help but stare at her. Everything she does is precious to him.
She's haloed by the yellow lights, and she appears before him like an angel. A vision of pale skin and dark brown hair, eyes that match the amber of the wood surrounding them. The rhinestones on her sling seem to light up, covering her arm in sparkles. Even as Tifa wipes her mouth with a napkin, her lips are still so sweetly pink.
He bumps his leg against hers under the table, does it again so she knows it's intentional. He sees the blush darken her cheeks even as her gaze is downward. Her ankle hooks over his shin, and they stay this way, their knees grazing in a kiss.
He sees the way she blushes and bites her lip to smother her smile, and it makes his heart run laps. He feels every leap it takes on each individual bone of his ribcage. It's so silly, they've been together for a while—but every day always feels brand new to him. Every time like the first time. Each kiss the first one of many. Cloud is addicted to Tifa—he can't get enough of her.
He strums his knuckles on the table, looks at her carefully before he relieves his next thought on his tongue. "Maybe we can do stuff like this more often?"
Her eyes get big as she sips her soda, puckering her mouth over the straw. Tifa doesn't say anything, and her expression is hard to translate. Cloud's not sure if she agrees or wants to retreat to the safety of their room. He knows she hates going out in public. But maybe he can coax her out of her shell little by little, let her see that the world won't turn her away.
He thinks the rest of the night is going smoothly enough. Tifa doesn't seem upset until a girl comes up to their table. She looks like she's in high school, with dark blonde hair, wearing an oversized sweater and skinny jeans. Curiosity swells her eyes as she stands over them nervously. She hesitates before she pats Tifa's shoulder. It's less than a second, but enough for Tifa to nearly jump out of her seat.
"Sorry—are you Tifa? The girl from Dream Girl magazine?"
Cloud sees the color drain from her face as she holds her arm defensively. He's ready to tell this chick to get lost, he doesn't want anyone making Tifa uncomfortable, no matter what their intention is. But Tifa clears her throat, forces herself to sit a little straighter in her seat.
"Yea. I—I am."
The girl gushes, pulls on the collar of her sweater as she clasps her hand over her heart. "Oh my god. Me and my friends loved the article about you. We think you're so inspiring—"
Tifa smiles, but it's through dead eyes. She doesn't like this attention. Cloud wants to say something, but he doesn't want to be rude. Especially as this kid stands here and puts Tifa on a pedestal, painting her as a hero.
"—Thanks," he interjects, cutting her off mid-sentence. He forces eye contact with the girl as he taps his knee against Tifa's beneath the table. "We appreciate it."
She gets the hint and leaves, but the tension still lingers, hovering over them like a thick haze. Tifa is very quiet, her hair hanging over her shoulders as she stares down at her bowl. This might have been the first time someone publicly recognized her. Tifa doesn't go out much and doesn't have an online presence, but people seem to know who she is. They must wonder about her.
Cloud thinks this killed the mood. All he wanted was for Tifa to have a good time, to convince her to get out more. Maybe he can take her somewhere else to make up for it. Someplace more private. But when he sees how tired she looks, he decides he doesn't want to keep torturing her.
So, he takes them home, parks in a spot in front of the building. He kills the ignition, hears the roar of the engine die out. Tifa is still quiet. She looks to her lap, her hand strangled between her thighs.
Cloud hates seeing her look so sad, especially when he wanted her to have a nice time. He lingers in the car as they sit together in the darkness. When he reaches over to pet her head, his fingers delve through the thickness of her hair, rubbing circles on her scalp. Tifa sighs against the caress, rolls her neck as she lets him touch her.
"Are you okay?" His voice is gentle, above a whisper. Tifa closes her eyes, exhales through her nose.
"Yea. I'm sorry." Her chest rises, filling with a needy breath when his thumb starts massaging her temple. "I ruined the date."
The curve of her mouth is tempting. Cloud wants to listen to her, talk through what's bothering her. But he's drunk off her smell and the silky slip of hair. He leans in, dabs a kiss on her cheek to entice her to turn her neck—she does. She's breathy and heavy-lidded, lips parted and swollen, and he kisses her. Slow and wet, feeling the gradual pull of their lips, and it almost feels better than the kiss itself.
"You didn't ruin the date," he tells her, speaking the words against her mouth and gathering her lips in another messy, short kiss that has her sinking in the seat. He pulls on her hair with the lightest touch so she lengthens her neck. He kisses her again, a hot breath easing from his nose and tickling her face.
They stay like this for a while. With his hand in her hair, kissing her tenderly and gingerly. The conversation is almost lost. But Cloud doesn't let it vanish. He wants Tifa to be okay, to tell him what upsets her, not to bury their problems under the guise of intimacy.
"Did that girl bother you?"
Tifa grunts against his mouth at the smack of their lips. Cloud mutters the words, clashes his teeth to hers to keep the closeness. He feels dizzy from her perfume, it makes him lightheaded. He craves more of it, more of her—wants her to smile again the way she did earlier. He sees the smear of spit on her lips when he opens his eyes.
Tifa looks just as disoriented as he does. She reaches out for another kiss, and he gives it to her, pecks her with a wet tenderness that relaxes her body as his hand slides lower to grip her neck. Her skin burns his palm, her pulse flickering on his thumb.
"No. It's just—" She retreats, her gaze strays from his eyes. He wills it back up to him, curling his fingers over the bones of her spine that disappear into the bottom of her skull. Their gazes blend, create a new color between brown and blue. They share one breath, spilled through panting mouths.
"Something somebody said to me. About people being inspired by me. Wanting me to be a success story." Tifa looks at her hand, still secured between the grip of her thighs. "It's a lot of pressure."
Cloud follows the trajectory of her gaze, luring her hand from its hiding spot. Theirs fingers weave together, his filling the hollows of her own. Their union symbolized as a solid fist. He strokes her knuckles, brings her close to his heart. A smile graces his lips as he zones in on her, their gazes melding together as his heart beats soundly against their hands.
"You don't have to be anything to anyone," he tells her. "It's not about them. Your happiness is most important."
Her bottom lip is taken in a shiver. She bares the white of her teeth, the tip of her tongue poking through. Her eyes are heavy, some of her mascara stained on top of her eyelids. Cloud doesn't let go of her hand.
"I'm happy when I'm with you." Her voice is soft, it comes out as a shaky whisper. And Cloud looks at her in a way that's reserved only for her. A look he's never given to anyone else in his life. Seen by no one except Tifa.
They lie in bed together a while later. Tifa faces away from him, lying on her stomach as she watches TV. Her hair fanned out around her, she taps her ankles as she bends her knees, pointing her toes in the air. Her shins flex, a deep arch curves her feet. Cloud is beside her, leans his back against the headboard, staring at his phone as he catches up on text messages, all bullshit. Bringing a knee to his chest, he takes glimpses of Tifa's naked legs hovering next to him.
Long, endless milky curves. She wears one of his tee shirts, white and baggy on her. Creeping up the back of her thighs as she lies there innocently, sucking a ring pop on her index finger while a movie on TV catches her attention. The sight of her so unassuming turns him on. He sees the curve of her ass hiding beneath wrinkled cotton. Tifa crosses her ankles, brings the candy out of her mouth with a wet pop.
It's warm in here tonight, Cloud only wears his sweatpants. His chest glistens in a sheen of sweat trickling in the ridges of his abdomen. He snaps his phone shut, glimmering a metallic blue as he places it at the bedside table.
The TV flashes against them like a fluttering camera lens. Tifa is sketched in shades of darkness, her curves drawn in careful strokes. Cloud's gaze is fixed to her thighs, the way they rub together as she gets more comfortable on the bed. His hand itches to crawl over her skin. The tendons of his knuckles flex, eager to touch her.
Tifa turns to him then, opens her mouth wide for him to see. "Is my tongue blue?"
He huffs a breath from his nose. Giving into the sweet temptation, his palm embraces the back of her knee, inching closer up her thigh. "Yea. So are your teeth. And your lips."
Tifa giggles through her grin, showcasing her teeth stained blue. Her smile is heartwarming, it reaches her eyes. This is Cloud's favorite view of her. When she looks this happy and carefree. When the troubles of the world are lifted off her shoulders and she can relax in the safety of their bedroom.
Her lips are dark, look bruised from the dye of her ring pop. The edges are rounded, it loses its shape the more she sucks on it. Her fingers curl into a fist as she brings the candy back in her mouth. She looks at Cloud, ignoring whatever captivated her on the TV. Everything she does is innocent enough, but there's a gleam in her eyes that seems provocative, like she's trying to seduce him.
And it's working. He locks on her gaze, his hand sliding up her thigh with wandering fingers. Her skin is hot to the touch, it scorches him in a delicious heat. Her toes curl, the arch in her back deepens. He can tell she's holding her breath, sucking on her candy harder. Everything he touches is soft and so delicate he's afraid he might bruise her with the lightest caress. But Tifa doesn't stop him, she furthers him. Hollows her cheeks, digs her elbow to the mattress.
Cloud creeps under her shirt, expects to feel the fabric of her underwear, but grazes the smooth curve of her naked ass instead. His brows twist as he sits up straighter, digs his fingers in her firm skin to make sure—and Tifa flinches at his aggressive touch. When he flips her shirt up, he sees the long indent of her spine, her back bent and dyed grey. She doesn't wear her white cotton panties, but a black thong. Lacy and sleek, he can see her skin through it. And over her ribcage hangs the hook of a matching bralette.
"You're so fucking sneaky—" Cloud can hardly get the words out between laughs, and Tifa giggles cutely as she squirms, kicking her legs and squeaking the mattress beneath her. Her ass is perfect—perky and round, spilling from the expanse of her hips.
He grabs a mound in each hand, squeezes hard before he slaps her. The sound echoes—he sees a slight redness on her cheek, and he thinks he might have hit her too hard. Tifa yelps, spits her candy from her mouth, but she doesn't object. She whines as he grabs her, flips her around. Yanks the tee shirt off her body as he kneels between her legs.
Her nipples are hard, poking through the black mesh covering her. He sees the rise and fall of her shivering chest, the way she stares at him with heavy eyes, parted blue lips as she grasps the blanket for support. Splayed and open for him—her hip flexors jut out from her inner thighs, her heels dig in the sheets as she writhes restlessly.
Cloud is painfully hard. His dick throbs against the barrier of clothes from the lewd sight of her. He's lost control of his limbs, his palms glide across the plane of her belly, touching sizzling skin. Her body is soft but solid. She looks flawless, like she's been sculpted from clay. Every curve intentional. He's drooling looking at her, touching her, feeling the manic pulse of his heart ring through his chest.
He frees her breast from the constraint of her bra, lets it fill his palm as he squeezes, watching Tifa roll her neck, lift her back off the bed. Her ankles hook around his hips, drawing him closer. He follows her lead, obeys her command like her little lapdog. Almost on top of her, but maintains enough distant so he can still look—drinking the beauty of her form with his starving gaze.
He wants to look at her tits, but doesn't want to take any of this off. He's desperate to fuck her with her lingerie on. So, he does the same to her opposing breast, lets it spill from the lace, the straps slipping down her shoulders. And Cloud is so ready to dive face first into her chest, that he almost forgets to kiss her.
Kissing up her neck as he pecks her jaw and finds her lips. She takes like a raspberry lollipop. He smiles against her mouth, his hand crawling between their bodies to play with her breast as he kisses her slowly. Feeling her moan into his caress when he pinches her nipple. Tifa grinds against his bulge, her thighs spread so wide that her knees touch the bed.
Cloud wants to kiss every morsel of her, fill his mouth with the taste of Tifa. He kisses down her body, glides his tongue on her neck, drinking the sweat from the hollow cave of her throat. She twists beneath him, he has to hold her down because she moves so much, pushing his knees under her thighs to angle her body. His back curves in a slouch when he kisses her nipples, one at a time, feeling them grow harder against the tip of his tongue.
Tifa keeps her song of pleasure silent, leaves it as a stifled hum in her throat. He holds one breast, focuses his attention there, dragging his tongue over her nipple before he draws it into his mouth. He loses his fucking mind when it comes to her tits—when her tit's in his mouth and he's sucking on her nipple, feeling her rattle beneath him ready to collapse.
He sucks and tickles her peak with his tongue—sucks even more as his hand strays to her opposing breast. Squeezing, grasping, teasing her with pinching fingers. He spits out her nipple with a wet pop, sees the gloss of his dribble shimmer on her skin. His breath fans the tip of her breast. He's desperate to see her reaction as she stretches her neck and twists her body in ecstasy.
Switching his mouth to her neglected breast, feeling the slip of his own spit when his hand falters on the other—Tifa groans, it's almost too loud. Her beautiful song releases in the air as she pushes her chest higher, deepens the arch of her spine. A sweaty, flexible heap he can bend to his liking. But right now, he's obsessed with her tits, abandons the rest of her needy body. Devours her breasts with a ravenous hunger—starved for the nipples pebbling in his mouth. Swollen and puffy the more he swallows and hollows his cheeks.
Cloud stops sucking, instead laps his tongue in repeated strokes and watches her breast wobble, her nipple flicker. They're swelled, tips tender and soaked blood red. Tifa won't stop moving, crying, reaching her hips to his. He should probably stop, she must be too sensitive now, stimulated past the point of pleasure, venturing somewhere else now—but he doesn't want to stop. He wants to see what happens if he keeps going. He wants her to come from this alone.
"I—It's too—It's too much—" Tifa struggles to get the words out. She's panting, her pelvis stuttering like she's begging him to touch her there. His drool paints her breasts. The heel of her foot scrapes his spine. When he looks to her face, her hair is disheveled, her mouth open and rounded as her eyes nearly squint shut. She's on the verge of ecstasy. He wants her to crash over it—he knows she can. He can help her.
"Do you want me to stop?"
He asks for her permission—and she grants it, shakes her head before throwing it back, elongating her neck. Cloud returns to the haven of her breasts, feasts on swollen red nipples. Latches onto one—grazes her with his teeth, caresses her with his tongue as he gives love to the other with an affectionate hand. Her tits are sweaty, melding with the stickiness of his spit. He knows she's tender and raw, so he touches her as delicately as he can.
And Tifa croaks, loses her breath as her body tenses. She becomes stiff beneath him, curved and bent and convulsing. Fuck—she's coming. He sees her pelvis lift and jerk even though he hasn't touched her there—and he wants to make it more intense for her, so he slips his hand inside her panties as she comes. He finds her engorged, spasming clit and rubs it in the rhythm of her climax.
Tifa jolts, comes so hard she can't even make a comprehensible sound. It's swallowed by the sharp breath she takes, the way she contracts every muscle in her body as she ripples through the pleasure that captivates her. Rasping gasps and shuddering hips—her breasts jiggle, her legs squeeze him in a frantic embrace.
He works her through it, fingers her clit and feels each wave of her orgasm on his fingertips. He rides it with her. It's so long, and she acts like she's dying, the life leaving her eyes. His hand cramps, it goes on for far too long. But he doesn't want it to end, turned on at the sight of her coming undone, as his own drool dries and leaves a tacky residue on his chin. The room is fogged by the scent of her arousal. Cloud wants more, he can't get enough—he wants to fuck the shit out of her.
Tifa grunts when he tosses her on her belly, lets her sprawl as a broken mass on the bed. Her arms extend, reaching—her stub clumps in the sheets as her arm lengthens, curling her fingers to grab a fistful of blanket. Her hair is thrown everywhere, he shoves it out of the way so he can get the full view of her back. He sits up, on his knees—grabs her hips and pulls her to him. Tifa lets him do whatever he wants, she's almost lifeless, moaning and churning and waiting for him to continue.
Her back arches, her ass pointed towards him. A flawless milky complexion, skin that's firm but still jiggles when he maneuvers her around. Her hips rest on his thighs, her knees bending behind him as he feels her ankles tap his shoulders. Cloud wants her so bad, he's grown manic in his lust for her. Breathing heavily with each drop of his chest, fumes exhuming from his mouth the longer he glares at this filthy sight of her.
He pushes his pants down over the jut of his hip bones, just enough to free his erection. It springs forward, taps itself between her folds. She's open and dripping, her sopping cunt staining her thong. His dick is throbbing, twitches in anticipation as it snaps against his navel, dripping a dark stream down his length. Taking a wide stance, he lets her legs stretch with him, splitting her thighs apart. And he guides his dick inside her, pushing her panties to the side as he feels her warmth embrace him with a bubbling heat that he groans into.
He holds her hips, his thumbs digging in the tender curve of her ass. Tifa feels like paradise. Warm and wet as she clenches him in a fierce grip. Moaning, wiggling, she paints a dirty portrait on his bed, ruining his sheets with the drip of lust between her legs.
Her pussy is so tight, she sucks him into her heat as he stretches her out, filling her with a desire that bursts out of him when he starts fucking her. Hard—from the moment he's inside her. Shoving his pelvis into her heatedly, transfixed on the jiggle of her ass the harder he goes, fed by the cries she muffles against the blanket. Her feet curl behind him—they're freezing. And he loves it. He loves her cold little feet, her round ass, the long canvas of her back. He loves that she's still wearing the ring pop even when he's fucking her—everything she does is so precious, so perfect. Cloud loves Tifa, he loves her, he fucking loves her—
One hand slides from her hip, pushes down her back—she's impossibly curved for him. He fucks her deeper, reaches inside her core to hit her in an angle he knows she'll like. Because Tifa likes getting it from behind. She turns into a thirsty little slut, pushing her hips back against him as they rebound from the impact of his thrusts.
She wants it, and he'll give it to her. He'll give her whatever she wants. He'll fuck her harder, angrier, as his grip slips from the sweat that cakes her body, and he gnashes his teeth as his dick starts burning from the pleasure that builds. And builds and builds.
Cloud doesn't last much longer. He's helpless to the tide of his orgasm, flooded in the carnal bliss that immerses him, crashing through each current of desire that electrifies him. He spills into her with the mark of his love. Tifa gasps through each stiff jerk of his hips, her hair thrown forward, dark tresses blended with the navy hued sheets.
He's pulled her ass apart, stretched her open with his grip—his dick. Her skin swells with the impending bruises he's left on her. He feels guilty, like he's hurt her, was too rough with her, but Tifa doesn't complain. She writhes and pokes her ass, stifles a moan when he pulls himself out of her. Her underwear snaps back in place, he sees it stain white as she drips from her weeping cunt.
And the vision of her like this is so sexy, his dick gets hard again.
September 2007, Nibelheim
Cloud is ready to leave for work one morning, about to follow Zack out the door.
But Aerith stops him. She wears a short, velvety pink robe, stirs something with a whisk in a big pink bowl. Cloud doesn't know what—probably glitter and hearts and sugar or whatever girly bullshit she's mixed together. She does it at the kitchen island, her hair spilling over her shoulders and back in long chestnuts waves. Humming to herself as she stirs, tilting her head back and forth to her own song.
He's gotten his riding boots on when she calls out to him in a whistle. He still has his bike, he likes riding it to work when the weather's nice enough. Plus, it helps him weave through traffic when he's running late—like this morning, as Aerith interrupts him from leaving. He stuffs the pantlegs of his jeans in his boots, pulls his beanie past his eyebrows as he corners her in the kitchen, standing on the opposite side of the island.
She smiles at him, rosy cheeks dimpled as her eyes glow a fierce shade of jade. Cloud leans his palms on the table. He's copied Yuffie, cut holes in the sleeves of an old sweatshirt so he can slip his thumbs through them. He doesn't hate it—he kind of likes it. He might destroy more of his clothes.
"I got information for you," Aerith says, flashing a smirk that shows her teeth. She continues stirring, doesn't let her talking disturb the hum of her lullaby.
Cloud cocks his head back to give her a narrowed look. "About what?"
"Tifa."
She says it so casually, in that sing-song voice of hers. It can't possibly be anything bad, but it makes Cloud wonder what she has to tell him. He taps his knuckles on the counter, waits for her to continue, but she just keeps humming, batting her lashes at him like she expects him to say something to her.
"Spill it."
"I saw some of her rehearsal this week."
Oh—oh, this is good. Cloud's been wondering what the fuck's been going on there, why Tifa's in so much pain. She has a doctor's appointment coming up soon to get x-rays done. He's been worried about her hurting herself. He props his elbows on the table, leans in closer. Aerith smells like vanilla, blending with the permanent sweet fragrance of the room.
"What'd you see?" he asks her, shifting his lips curiously.
She drops the whisk, lets it clank against the edge of the bowl. Her expression changes, less teasing, more serious. Her eyes get impossibly big, burning a neon green. Her nails rake the counter when she grips the frame of the island.
"It's like bootcamp over there!" Aerith exclaims, shooting her dainty hand to her mouth as she tries to keep her voice down. "He's got her doing some G.I. Jane shit!"
Cloud's not sure how to take this news. "What?"
Aerith gets animated, starts using wild hand gestures to describe what she's seen. "Yea, like—he has her hanging upside down doing sit-ups." Her palms go behind her head to demonstrate the motion. "And—and—she does one handed pushups! He straps an ankle weight around her left arm and makes her hold it out the whole time. It's insane!"
Cloud blinks through her explanation, his lips part as he feels crisp air hit his teeth. "Tifa does one handed pushups?"
"Yes!" she cries out, nearly jumps out of her skin from how much her knees start to bounce. "And she does so many of them! Perfectly. She's a beast."
"Huh."
Cloud is conflicted.
It carries with him the rest of the day, that night when he watches Tifa get dressed. He's noticed her body's gotten tighter, her stomach solid and her arms toned. But he looks at her in a different light now. That there's a chance that Cloud isn't her strong protector anymore—because Tifa's fucking stronger than him. His body is just for show—there's no way he can do what Tifa does. She's supposed to be dancing, why the fuck has this guy got her training like she's competing in the Olympics?
Early next morning, when Cloud works out with Zack in the gym downstairs, he scuffles on the floor.
One hand splayed on the mats, the other tucked behind his back. He takes a wide stance with his legs, his sneakers jabbing into the rubber floor. He's caked in sweat, its bleeds through his tee shirt, pastes the fabric to his stomach the harder he pushes. Facing the mirror, he watches himself struggle trying to get through a couple of pushups. It's pathetic how bad he is at this. When Tifa—the person he's supposed to protect and take care of—is doing this multiple times a week like it's nothing.
Cloud stammers to the floor, lands on his chin. He feels so defeated, grunting, moping, sprawled like a pitiful heap ready to be raked away. Sweat drizzles his forehead, sheathing his body in an unending warmth. He's been slacking this entire time they've been together, working out just enough for her to want to run her tongue between his abs. Not enough for him to be stronger than her.
Zack sits at a bench next to him, alternates between curling two heavy dumbbells as he works his biceps. They squeeze, veins throbbing at his forearms, solid muscle ready to burst from his flesh. His hair is wet, sweat dripping down his neck, pasting his tank top to his body as a second layer of skin.
He watches Cloud the entire time he struggles on the floor. Silent, observing, curiosity glazed in his blue eyes. He drops the weights, thumbs the bushy dark hairs of his brow as he takes a moment to catch his breath.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
Cloud doesn't move, just lies there like he's dead. "Tifa can do one-handed pushups."
Zack gives him a weird look, brows pinching together and dimpling his nose as he extends his palm. "What other type of pushups would she do?"
Cloud is glad they're alone, no one else ever comes to the gym this early, so they can't see him wallow in his misery. But it's in that moment when he hears the chime of the door opening. He doesn't get up or move, just sees nude ivory legs walk by him, wearing silver stilettos, and he accidently peeks up her skirt because she wears a tiny pink nightie.
God—it's Aerith. Cloud sees her reflection in the mirror. Her heels mark tiny circles on the mats. She carries a big water bottle, an excited skip to her step as she approaches Zack at the bench. Her hair is tied up, swaying in the rhythm of her strut. She's all smiles and giggles, wiggly hips and bright eyes.
"Babe! You forgot your water bottle!"
This is excruciating. She sits on Zack's thigh, pecks her nose against his affectionately. They're already all over each other as he palms her low back, accepting her gesture with a kiss to her mouth.
"Babe, thanks! I was dying without it." Zack takes the bottle from her and presses it to his cheek.
"I washed it and it filled it with fresh cold, clean water for you," she gushes in a tone that's way too cheery for this early in the morning. Her arms wrap around his shoulders. She's spotless, emitting a sugary scent as she hangs over Zack, his skin flushed and slick with sweat.
When she kisses his cheek, she lingers, moans into it as he drops the bottle beside him, gathering her closer in a sticky embrace. "Mmmm babe, you're so hot and sweaty. It's sexy."
Aerith starts licking the sweat off Zack's neck, dragging her tongue over his skin in frantic strokes as she squirms on his lap. The skirt of her nightie rides up her thighs, and Zack riles her on, lengthens his neck for her, grasping the silky fabric of her dress.
"Clean me up, baby. I've been a really dirty boy—"
Cloud wants to pour bleach in his eyes and ears. They are so fucking disgusting. They have no shame. Anyone could walk in and see them groping each other, as Aerith nearly humps Zack's leg and he's ready to pull her tit out of her nightgown.
Cloud can't even find the strength to get up, he's exhausted. And after what feels like an eternity of Zack and Aerith pawing at each other, she finally gets off his lap, starts to leave in a slew of giggles as she pries herself away from him. Apparently, she had no clue Cloud is here, because she steps on him, piercing his arm with the spike of her heel.
Cloud groans, Aerith steps back as her hands shoot to her mouth. "Cloud! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there."
"It's whatever," he mumbles, using the last of his will to live to hoist himself from the floor. He sits on his knees, stares at the polished pink toenails and sparkly heels of the small feet posed before him. His breath is heavy, he feels like an anchor is strapped to his chest. Breathing feels painful, his arms burning even now as he rests.
"Cloud's trying to do one-handed pushups like Tifa," Zack blurts out, bringing a knee to his chest as he props his foot on the bench. Drinking from the bottle, he wipes the water from his mouth with the back of his hand. He's a fucking narc, and Aerith isn't pleased with the information, lowering her brows at Cloud as her hands plant on her hips.
"Seriously, Cloud?" She clicks her tongue, her ponytail bobbing behind her as she shakes her head. "I'm never telling you anything ever again."
Cloud thinks this is the end of it, that he can go back to feeling miserable in peace. But Zack interjects again, stopping Aerith from leaving the gym. He slaps his palm to the bench before pointing directly at Cloud with a lift of his brow.
"By the way, we need to have another talk about the noise level coming out of your room."
Cloud really hates this. It's not even seven in the morning, Aerith is in here wearing high heels, making out with Zack, and now he's going to lecture him on how loud he has sex. It's fine, it's whatever. He refuses to make eye contact with either of them.
"Okay, I'll talk to Tifa—" he starts to grumble, but he's interrupted by the stark laugh that blurts out of Zack's mouth.
"It's not Tifa we're hearing, buddy."
Cloud falls back on his tail bone, feels the drizzle of sweat that leaves his hair and trickles down his cheek. His gaze shoots to Zack almost frantically. "Well, it's definitely not me."
"It is you—you're a moaner!"
Cloud gets redder than he already is. This is ridiculous. He buries his face in his palms, rubbing his eyes so his vision gets blurred. "I'm not a moaner."
He feels Aerith's shadow hover over him, and he glimpses at her through spread fingers as she kneels down to him, patting his hair affectionately. She gives him the most pitiful, sad look as she shakes her head. "You're a moaner, honey."
Cloud is mortified. There's no way he's that loud—louder than Tifa? He wants to prove them wrong, but he doesn't know how. It doesn't help that Zack mocks him, grasping his chest as he pulls on his tank top so hard that his nipples poke through the collar.
"I love you—ohhhh—I'd die for you—ahhhh!"
This isn't funny, but Zack cackles through it like it's hilarious. Aerith shushes him, still crouched over Cloud as the neckline of her nightie dips low, revealing the flat bone of her sternum. She pinches his cheek, exposing his teeth and gums.
"Babe, don't make fun of him! It's so sweet and romantic."
It's a long morning. He can't wait for the day to end already. And Cloud still can't do one-handed push-ups.
~oOo~
Tifa is pushed past her breaking point.
She cracks little by little each rehearsal, but she maintains her composure, doesn't let Andrea get under her skin. Even though he does. He's cruel, unkind in the ways he corrects her. Always full of ridicule but never praise. Tifa has no idea what she's doing right, he doesn't tell her. Only when she's wrong does he stop her dancing to point it out in the most obvious way. She's not in a room full of people, but it's still humiliating. The way he points at her, handles her body that doesn't belong to him as he maneuvers her, positions her. Scolds her.
She tries her best—Tifa is dedicated, puts everything she has into training and choreographing her dance. She'll do anything to get ahead, to be the best. Tifa wants to be a dancer. But no matter how hard she tries, she still feels like an outcast.
Her body hurts. She feels the pulsing in each individual muscle. Her knees ache with every bend, stretching past her ankles in moves that would have any fitness instructor recoil. But this isn't fitness—it's dance. Breaking her body is expected. But she can't show her pain, it would only be another reason for Andrea to reprimand her. So, she grits her teeth and bares it.
Florescent lights flood her in a glow that makes everything she does more obvious. Rows of funhouse mirrors reflecting every move back to her. There's no hiding a mistake, a misplacement of her arm.
Andrea watches, and watches, and watches. He zones in on every little detail. Tifa does what she's supposed to do, wears her hair down and lets it blind her sight and whip her in the face—because that's what he wanted. In her black leotard with no tights, barefoot. She does everything he asks of her. And it's not enough. It's not enough—
Tifa is off today, she doesn't feel the music, unable to let it lead her through the dance. She's distracted, but she's not sure why. Something's bothering her—one thing, many things. Maybe it's Andrea's image in the mirrors judging her. She can't focus on herself, sees only him and his critical eyes. The way he strokes his chin, leans his weight on one hip. Wearing the same uniform every day. Black leggings, white crumpled shirt. Always the same, never changing. A constant source of the same agony with only glimpses of remorse. And it's enough, aways enough for her to forgive him. To find the humanity in him. To look past the displays of cruelty because she's desperate to find kindness.
But not today. Not today. Tifa has had enough today.
She dances through the second chorus, before the song slows down and she performs the segment with Modern floorwork. Dives in a series of pirouettes and fouetté turns that blend seamlessly together. She spins on a dime, catches her spot in the mirror. Turning, turning—her leg lifts, points out, her toes dip to her knee. She lengthens her arms, bring them in to first position, fans out to second—repeats and alters. Spinning faster, her body wrapped tighter. Her hair whips around her, clashes her vision, but Tifa sees past the bondage of strands.
Lowering her leg, spinning with both grounded to the floor as she closes her eyes, losing her spot, rolling her head as her hair splays around her. She feels everything—the slip of the floorboards as she stands on the balls of her feet, high in relevé, her arches curved deeply. Long and extended, her chest pushed out. Just like he taught her, what he tells her to do—Tifa does it. She feels the breeze she creates from the burst of movement swirl around her, slicing her lungs when she breathes in. She's ready to go to the floor, to perform her favorite part of the dance.
But the music stops abruptly. Almost like a record scratch, and Tifa stumbles from the sudden disruption, her eyes shooting open as she gasps through the motion. Her hair sticks to the sweat on her cheek, and she blows it off her, scratching her skin to rid stubborn strands. Her hearing is muffled from the pounding of her heart. It's loud, the reverb reaching her ears. It intensifies the internal noise of her own breathing, playing like a soundtrack of impending doom as she sees Andrea approach her in the mirrors.
He's angry, she can tell from the furrow of his brows, their arches enhanced. His fists plant on his hips as he shakes his head at her. And Tifa feels hopeless—she's having an off day, but she's trying her best. What did she do wrong? What's wrong this time? Why isn't anything she does ever good enough for him?
"What a pitiful performance. I almost have no words." But he does, he has plenty of words for her, circling her body in the way she's grown to despise. Critiquing, judging. "Why are you always so turned out?"
Tifa holds her arm for comfort, shrugging her shoulders as she tries to maintain eye contact, but his gaze is sharp, it cuts right through her. "You don't tell me when I should or shouldn't be in turn out."
"You need to figure it out," he snaps at her, getting closer and closer, that she can hear the huff of his breath the more riled up he gets correcting her. "You're always so focused on the rules, what style of dance I'm teaching you. Forget the rules, learn to lead with your soul. And right now, the way you move, it's soulless. Shameful."
He already goes off in another rant, frames himself in a spotlight of jittery lightbulbs as he sets the stage for his theatrics. Using vivid hand gestures to get his point across.
"You're undisciplined, Tifa. When you walk in here not ready to dance, you waste my time. And you know how valuable it is, don't you? How many people want to train with me—but I chose you, I lent you my time."
She holds her breath as she bites back tears. Cradling the stump of her arm, because she feels the need to protect herself. He keeps saying the word that she hates, the one she knows isn't true—undisciplined. Tifa isn't, she's not—she tries her hardest every single day. He doesn't know how much pain she's in, how she sacrifices her comfort in order to succeed.
She listens and nods and tries to do it right every single time. She bares the weight of his nastiness, just for a glimmer of the kindness he may or may not gift her. It depends on his mood—and most of the time it's lousy. Before she's even walked in the room, he's already decided how he's going to treat her.
And today, Andrea is ruthless. She smells the venom of his words, tastes the acid on her tongue. It's bitter, makes her feel sick to her stomach. Tifa holds her ground, she won't let him break her. He won't be the reason she gives up. It's been almost a year of constant training. Through pain, through colds and fevers, scheduling doctor appoints around his time. Tifa is so close, almost at the finish line. And she'll cross it, she'll cross it—
"And why are you flailing your stubby arm so much today?"
He grabs her, hooks his nails over her arm and raises it as a spectacle to be scorned. Tifa's lips part, she almost loses her balance. She watches the scene play out in the mirrors, horrified by the sight of him manhandling her. Jerking her arm as he twists it, trying to mold her to some other form.
"How many times must we go through the same tiring exercise?" he complains, and she feels his nails press crescents on her skin.
Tifa winces, she's losing it, slowly falling apart. Her eyes glaze over in tears. It obstructs her vision. He won't let go, he doesn't drop her arm. He mocks her as the light basks in the puckered skin that's healed, once sewn and stitched together. He ridicules what she's lost, what she tries so hard to regain.
"This isn't the circus. Your performance is befitting of a freakshow. If you're going to keep dancing this way with such little regard to your form, I suggest you audition for the Ringling Brothers."
And that's it. Tifa snaps. She loses her composure. She promised herself she'd cross the finish line, and she will. With or without him.
She yanks her arm away from him harshly, taking a step back. And she takes a deep breath that spills from her nose as a heavy gust. She can't control the stream of tears that trickle over her face, and she doesn't care. She'll cry if she wants to, she'll cry until she's a screaming, sobbing mess.
"No."
She shouts the word, hears it echo back to her as a round blending in a delicious harmony. She says it again just to hear herself say it. "No!"
Andrea scratches his head as the anger from his expression falls, replaced by shock. "Excuse me?"
"That's it, I've had it. I'm done." Tifa is still yelling, even though his tone has softened considerably. Her tears splatter as she shakes her head, grabbing her arm with caution as she fears he'll seize it again.
"I will never again take cruelty from anyone—any man. You are the last person to ever raise their voice at me, and this is the last time."
He changes his attitude real quick, stopping her from storming away as he rests his hand on her shoulder. "If I raised my voice at you, I'm sorry. I only push you because I can see your potential—"
"I don't care!" Tifa isn't yelling anymore, she's screaming. Her frantic voice floods the room, ringing in the wails of her sobs. Her face is drenched, she keeps swiping her forearm over her eyes to catch the trek of tears, but there are too many. They travel down her cheeks, over the hill of her jaw, the rift of her neck. Dousing her chest in a ruthless shimmer. It's beautiful yet heartbreaking—and freeing. To cry this openly, express herself so brutally. She's a mess, and what she says is true. She doesn't care. She doesn't.
"I don't need to be pushed—" She spits the words, bares her teeth as she lunges forward. "I've seen cruelty my entire life. It's done nothing good for me! It hasn't made me a better dancer. I've known nothing but pain. I show up—the wounds haven't closed yet, and I still show up."
Tifa bares her heart as she performs her monologue. Tifa is the star, she is the one the lights enhance as she runs her own rant. The room learns the sound of her voice. Her tears form tiny puddles on the floor, and she wipes them with the heel of her foot.
"Your cruelty doesn't help me. It doesn't toughen me or build me or do any of the things you think it does. I can learn just as well without you telling me how horrible I am. And I know the real truth—"
She pauses, compresses her lips as she stares up at him with bleeding eyes. Andrea is quiet, he lets her speak, his expression stern. His arms cross over his chest, pressing wrinkles in his shirt.
"And the truth is—you need me more than I need you."
Andrea doesn't respond, just gives her that same stiff look. And Tifa drops her arm, makes her way to her clothes and bag that are pushed up against the corner of the room.
"So, thank you for your time—but I quit. I'll do the show without you."
His silence breaks, he follows her in a hurry. Tifa isn't stupid, she remembers what he told her. She's his ticket out of this school. His protégé. He needs her, has plans for her that involve his own progression. He needs her, and he sticks his tail between his legs now that she threatens him.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Tifa. So, we've had one bad day."
"No."
The word is liberating. She wants to say it all the time, again and again. Wants to scream it to the world. And now that she's opened her mouth, she won't shut up. She keeps telling him off. In English, Russian—not Bulgarian, because she's found her mother's voice. As if she's possessed by her spirit, bringing her a sudden bout of strength Tifa fears will leave her once the adrenaline of this moment has passed. But she holds onto it as long as she can, points in his face the way he has the past year. Her brows slant, she feels the quiver of her lip. Tifa is pissed, she's pissed of being mistreated. It ends today—it ends now.
Andrea grabs her shoulders with a gentleness she isn't used to from him. It disrupts her tirade, makes her drop the sweatpants she's picked up from the floor. His expression is soft, sympathetic. His brows unlax, his jaw loses its tension. She sees the glimmer of something unfamiliar in his eyes. It looks like desperation.
"I'm sorry," he says in a tone that doesn't belong to him, so foreign that she thinks he's stolen someone else's voice.
Tifa is quiet now, she feels her tears dry, leaving a tacky residue on her skin. Her body shivers in the remnants of her outburst. Her sadness overcomes her anger. Tifa is tired, she's just so tired, and it makes her start crying all over again.
But Andrea doesn't look at her with disgust. It's the kindness she always craves. But it's not a glimpse of it this time. It anchors, stays in place. He knows he's overstayed his grip on her body, and he pries himself away.
"Let's try this—" He takes a deep breath, giving her a moment to collect herself before he continues. "Take the rest of the day off. And when you come back tomorrow, we'll do things your way."
Tifa doesn't say anything. She's said enough, spoken her peace. She only wipes her face with her forearm, her gaze falling to the floor as she nods.